The Detective's Daughter
by Sartorial
Summary: What if the world's only consulting detective had a daughter? Can she learn to get along with a man so stubborn and obstinate? Can he learn to be a father to the daughter he's never known? AU, Characters will probably be a bit OOC, and will contain spoilers up until the end of series 2. Reviews are basically the best thing ever.
1. Chapter 1

(Author's Note: I am an American. I would very much appreciate any corrections/suggestions on my terminology :)The characters will probably be a little OOC, but I will try not to change them too much. Reviews, good or bad, would be much appreciated, and I will respond to all of them)

Tap. Tap. Tap tap. Tap.

I bite back a moan of frustration. I finished my Pre Cal test ages ago, but the way this kid next to me is tapping is really annoying.

"Oy, you. Shut up!" the kid looks over at me surprised, but he does stop his tapping. Finally. Peace and quiet. I don't even really know why I'm here. I finished secondary school about six months ago through independent study, but my mother insists that it's good for me to be around kids my own age. So here I sit, in this insufferable classroom.

"Sadie Adams to the head's office, please," a cool voice says over the intercom. I shrug. Anything to get out of here. I grab my bag and walk out the door, nodding at the teacher as I pass. I think she sighs, but I'm not particularly paying her any attention. As I saunter down the hall, I run the possibilities for the reason of my visit to the office through my mind. I suppose Mum could be signing me out early, but I doubt it. She puts entirely too much stock in the public education system. I've not done anything to get me into trouble in weeks, unless you count sleeping in class, which I don't. The teachers probably prefer that to me correcting them.

"Sadie?" I've arrived at the office and the receptionist is speaking to me. I smile pleasantly.

"Hello. I was called?" She gives me a sympathetic glance that I don't quite understand. Why does she feel sorry for me? I frown a bit; I don't like pity.

"Right through here, Sadie." She bites her lip and looks at me sadly. What in the world? I walk into the head's office, more than a little perturbed, and look around. I see the head, the guidance counselor, the nurse, and… another woman. I look her over, analyzing her quickly. Her hair is pinned back in a severe bun, and she carries a suitcase. I see a lanyard peeking out of her jumper. Make-up expertly applied, not a hair out of place.

"Government worker." I say, glancing her over. The head, used to such a performance, merely sighs and gives me a pained look. "No, strike that, social worker." The head, the guidance counselor, and the social worker, all in a room to see me.

I'm not stupid. No, far from it.

"What's happened to her?" I demand, my voice as steady as I can make it. The social worker looks at me carefully.

"Well, Sadie, it seems-"

"Just tell me what happened." I keep my voice hard, because if I don't I'll start crying and I don't want to cry in front of these people. To her credit, the lady doesn't blink. She's obviously got some information on me, because she is not surprised in the least by my reaction.

"Your mother was hit by a car and died on impact." I blink. I blink again. I blink one last time and all indication of my tears have been erased. I swallow to get rid of the lump in my throat. I had known it, I had known she was dead the second I walked into this office, but it doesn't make the news any easier to take. My mother, dead. I will never see my mum again. "I'm very sorry, Sadie," the woman says, looking at me sadly. I nod. In a small voice, I ask,

"What's going to happen to me now?" The woman looks at me carefully.

"Have you ever met your father, Sadie?" I shake my head.

"Mum never told me about him. I don't even know his name." The social worker- Kelly, I can see her name on the badge now- exchanges a pained glance with my guidance counselor.

"Well, Sadie, since your mother did, in fact, list him as the father on your birth certificate, it seems he's got legal custody of you." I look at her in shock. I've always wondered about my father. Mum would talk about him, occasionally, but she never told me his name.

"Who is my father?" I ask her carefully.

"Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?" I run the name through my memory. I have an eidetic memory. As far as I know, I haven't forgotten anything, ever. Well, from about three years old on, I suppose.

"No, I've never heard of him."

"He's a… a sort of detective, I suppose." In response to my still-blank expression, she presses on. "Well, he's your father."


	2. Chapter 2

(Author's Note: Okay, so I've noticed that there is some issue with my spacing. I'm working on it, but I'm new to the site and my computer is a little messed up. If any of you have a solution, please pm me! Also- would you guys prefer longer chapters, or do you like the short ones? As always, reviews are much appreciated :) Happy reading!)

The rest of the week is a blur-turning in schoolbooks, saying goodbye to the one or two classmates I don't actually hate, and, going home and packing. At night, I stay in the local temporary care unit. Apparently they are waiting for some paperwork to be cleared before I can go to live with my… father.

I look around my room, eyeing everything. Kelly said I can pack two suitcases now, but that the rest of my things will have to be shipped later. I decide to fill one suitcase with clothes, including my favorite sweaters, hoodies, and boots. Something tells me I'm going to need a little comfort.

The next suitcase, I fill with other miscellaneous items. Toiletries, books, my laptop, all of my chargers, and various experiments that can withstand the journey. I give a little shudder and stand up. This will be the last time I see this house for at least four years. Suddenly overwhelmed, I throw myself onto my bed and sob, taking care to bury my face in my pillow. It would not do for Kelly to hear me crying. Finally, I get up when I hear her calling my name.

"I'm nearly done! Just another fifteen minutes!" I use that time to clean my face and carefully apply my make-up. A bit of foundation, slightly red lip gloss, and too much eyeliner and mascara, as usual. I suppose if I'm to meet my father today, I should at least make an effort to look nice. I change into my favorite red and black plaid oversized flannel, black leggings, and my black combat boots.

Finally, after closer to twenty minutes, I walk down the steps, tugging both of my suitcases behind me.

"All ready?" Kelly asks. I nod. She grabs one of the suitcases and walks outside to the government car. I follow her outside and into the car. As we drive away, I look back, burning the image of my childhood home into my mind. And then, we turn the corner, and I am gone.

I look out the window, wondering what sort of person my father is. Is he clever, like me, or is he an idiot? Will he accept my idiosyncrasies, or will he think I'm strange? I tell myself it doesn't matter, but it does. I will be living with this man for the next four years. Finally, after an entirely too-long car drive, we pull up outside a three-story flat.

"Nervous?" Kelly asks as we get out of the car. I shrug.

"You don't have to stay, you know." She looks at me, a bit surprised.

"I just thought I'd get you settled in a bit. I-"

"I understand," I interrupt her, "but honestly, it's all right. The papers are signed and you've escorted me onto the property. I'm sure you have loads of other cases today, anyway." She glances at me uncertainly.

"Are you sure?" I nod impatiently. For some reason, I can't stand her presence, I want her to leave, now. " You have my number, correct? If you need me for anything, please, don't hesitate to call." And with that, Kelly is gone. For a moment (a very brief moment, mind you) I consider grabbing my suitcase, calling a cab, and losing myself in the city.

But that's stupid. Though I'm sure I could hide for a while, I'd have nowhere to live and no way to support myself. And if Sherlock Holmes- my father- is this great detective, would he come looking for me?

The thought gives me pause. The idea of someone, anyone, caring enough to look for me out of anything other than a sense of duty, is appealing. As much as I'd like to pretend nothing rattles me, I have missed the care-free affection from my mother. I took for granted her hugs, my home-made lunch, and the fact that she enjoys my sarcasm. For the past week, I have been a little attention-starved.

But I can't just run away, not now. I am a show-off, not an attention seeker, and anyway, my curiosity is too strong. I step up to the door and knock four times, solidly. A man comes to the door and smiles. I'd say he's in his mid to late thirties, and his hair is already graying. _Too old to be my father_.

"Hello, you must be Sadie." I nod.

"Um, who are you?" I say bluntly. He chuckles a bit.

"I'm your dad's flat-mate, John Watson." I grimace unconsciously at the word "dad".

"Nice to meet you, Dr." He smiles and then knits his brow in confusion.

"How did you know I'm a Doctor?" I shrug.

"Well, army doctor, really." John apparently seems to accept that as an acceptable answer, and I'm a bit put off that he's not more impressed by my deduction skills. He leads me up the stairs, saying, "Our flat's up here. You can call me John, by the way." When we get to the top of the stairs, I scan the room. A living room, a small kitchen, and a staircase that presumably leads to the bedrooms. The flat, I have to say, is a mess. There are papers everywhere, and… Are those experiments? I shake my head. I'll find out later. My attention is dominated by the most fascinating thing in this room.

A man is lying on the sofa, face turned towards the ceiling. He has dark, curly hair, and very pale skin. Of course, he's not standing up, but he seems to be very tall, as well. I can't help thinking that he's similar to me.

"Sherlock," John says in an exasperated tone. "Sherlock, Sadie is here." The man-Sherlock Holmes-my father- doesn't even glance up.

"Busy." John glares at him.

"Sherlock, your _daughter_ is here! Aren't you going to say anything?" This time he doesn't even respond. He continues to stare placidly at the ceiling. John turns to me to apologize, but my temper is too quick. I open my mouth to shout at him, to say horrible things to him, but the words won't come. I snap my mouth shut and grab my suitcase. I've half a mind to walk out the door, but I know if I do, I can never come back. So I calmly walk up the stairs as if I know exactly where I am going. I only pause for a moment when I get to the top, finally deciding, by the vacuum marks on the carpet, which room is to be mine. I go inside, throw down my things, slam the door, and moan. I've only been here two minutes, and already, my own father won't talk to me. What am I going to do? What sort of father is too 'busy' staring at the ceiling to say hello to his own daughter? I hear a knock at the door and brace myself for John's sympathy.

"Come in," I say quietly. To my surprise, it is not John that I see but Sherlock.

"Hello," he says simply. I nod.

"Hi." He walks into my room and perches uncertainly on the edge of my bed. I know he will not apologize for his behavior, but somehow I'm okay with that. It is enough, for now, that he has acknowledged me.

"I'm sorry about your mother." I look up at him, confused. The expression on his face is almost… tender. It's far more emotion than I would have thought him capable of, anyway.

"Why have I never met you?" I say suddenly. I've wondered for years why my mother talked about him with such fondness, but never mentioned his name. Sherlock sighs, and his mouth twists into a grimace.

"It's… difficult. We were young, and your mother realized that, at that time, I was not ready for a committed relationship. She didn't tell me about you." My eyes widen (just a bit, mind you, because even now, I don't want to show too much emotion).

"I suppose that explains a lot." I say evenly. He nods and sighs, almost like he has a confession to make.

"Sadie… I'm not a good man. I am not patient, or kind, and I have no tolerance for idiocy." I suppose this rather unorthodox self-description would daunt most people, but I smile just slightly.

"Was that supposed to bother me? Mum always said I was just like you." A peculiar expression crosses his face then- not exactly curiosity, but something akin to it. Hurriedly, I change the subject. "So what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a consulting detective for Scotland Yard. The only one," he says arrogantly. I raise an eyebrow.

"But you must take private cases, too, right? I mean, since you don't actually have a degree, they can't pay you."

"How do you know I don't have a degree?" he asks immediately. I snort.

"Didn't see a degree framed on the walls. You're the sort that would frame it."

"And how do you know I'm not independently wealthy?" he fires back. I roll my eyes.

"Because you have a flat-mate and you obviously prefer being alone." He smiles at me suddenly.

"You're actually clever. Good. I should have been so disappointed if you were dull." I feel a bit strange. I wasn't seeking his approval… of course not. But I seem to have gained it. And that thought makes me smile.


	3. Chapter 3

(Author's Note: Let me start by saying how sorry I am that it's taken me this long to update. I could give you all sorts of excuses, but the long and short of it is that I just got busy. Thankfully, I've got me EOC's-end of course exams for anyone outside the US- this coming week, and so I should have plenty of time to update. Again, I'm very sorry to everyone who read and liked my story, but I am most definitely not giving it up! Thanks for reading!)

Despite the conversation I have with my father the day I arrive, he, for the better part of a month, ignores me. It seems either he has no cases to engage him and is therefore in a sort of stupor, or he has no idea how to deal with a grieving teenager. In any case, I am left mainly to my own devices. I've been spending a lot of time in my room, reading, experimenting, and watching Netflix. The only time I really get out of the house is when Sherlock is "busy" and John and I are being too "loud" and we go out for dinner or to the shops. Finally, at the beginning of my fourth week at Baker Street, the monotony is broken by the arrival of a visitor. Eagerly, I run down the steps, hoping to see someone interesting. I arrive just in time to see a portly man in his forties walk in seemingly uninvited and seat himself in the living room. When he sees me, he smiles.

"Hello. You must be Sadie. I'm Mycroft, Sherlock's-"

"Brother," I interrupt. "I can see the resemblance." He looks surprised. I do _so _love having that effect on people.

"Sherlock and I look nothing alike!" he protests.

"Not in looks. It's the way you carry yourself," I explain. As I say that the aforementioned brother himself walks in.

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock."

"What _are _you doing here?" Sherlock asks contemptuously. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"Seeing as you place no value on your daughter's education, I thought it was up to me to do something about it." I roll my eyes.

"I learned everything I need to know ages ago." Mycroft looks amused.

"I can see, you do have your father's arrogance. But you need to at least start in a home-school program." I look at him, offended.

"That's not what I meant. I literally graduated secondary school. About six months ago, actually. Mum just made me go because she had this ridiculous idea that I would make 'friends'," I say. He looks mildly impressed.

"Well! I'll have to check up on that, but you shouldn't just stop your education." I give him a look.

"What do you suggest? Uni? I don't want to go to class and listen to some boring professor drone on about things I neither need nor care about," I say disinterestedly.

"Sherlock could teach you what he does." I feel my breath catch in my throat. I've honestly never thought about being involved in criminal investigations, but now that Mycroft has presented the idea, I am fascinated. I can't help the feeling of hope that wells up within me as I turn to my father, eyes pleading.

"I have no cases, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't take her along," Sherlock snaps. "Honestly, Mycroft, a crime scene is no place for a child." I fight the urge to shout and force myself to speak calmly.

"I am not a child. I am fourteen years old. And I'm certainly more than capable enough to go along on a case." He frowns.

"Doesn't matter. I have no cases," he fires back.

"Actually," Mycroft intercedes, "I believe you are about to get a text from Lestrade in three, two-" The phone buzzes.

"Well, _Dad_, are you going to take me or not?" Sherlock looks at me, curiously. I realize now that I have been avoiding the matter of what exactly to call him altogether-and if I speak of him to John or Mrs. Hudson, then I use "my father". But now that I've called him "Dad", even in jest, it seems to have solidified something.

"Go and get your coat," he says to me, idly. I dash up the steps, eager to get ready before he can change his mind. My cheeks flush every time I think of calling him "Dad", and I laugh. How weird is it that I feel uncomfortable even addressing my father properly?

When I get back downstairs, fully ready, Mycroft is gone and John has left, so it's just me and Sherlock. He's turned around, studying something on his desk.

"Hey, uh, I'm ready. To go." I stumble awkwardly over my words, deliberately avoiding addressing him. He turns and gives me a small smile.

"You don't have to avoid directly addressing me. Names are of no consequence." I give him a small, sheepish smile in return. "Now then, let's be off. Lestrade said this should be a good one."

"The same Lestrade whose police badges you nick? I found them in a drawer," I say, holding one up. He waves a hand which I take to be an affirmation.

"Keep it. I pick-pocket him when he's annoying, which is often." I put my hand up to hide a grin.

The cab ride over to the crime scene is quiet. Dad is thinking over the case, and I'm thinking about him. Is he actually going to start acknowledging my presence?

"Why do you insist on wearing those everywhere you go?" Dad's voice breaks the silence. Following his gaze, I see him looking at my well-worn black combat boots.

"I like them." A quiet pause. "And I don't wear them everywhere."

"Yes, you do," Dad says smugly. If it were anyone else I'd say he was smiling.

"I don't either. Just the other day I wore my grey ones to dinner."

"No, you didn't." For some reason, his smirk annoys me. Perhaps it's not only that I know I'm right, but the fact that he thinks he can't possibly be wrong that causes me to blow up.

"Well how would you know? You've spent the last month on the couch alternating between nicotine patches and injecting cocaine into your arm!" I turn to the window, suddenly angry at the way he's ignored me for the past four weeks. The loss of my mother left me numb, and it's only now, talking to him, that I realize how many emotions I've been feeling.

I turn to the window, uncomfortable. Yes, he's ignored me, but isn't he trying to make up for it now? Should I pretend that I haven't said anything, that I am not currently seething?

"We're here," my father says quietly. I perk up, my resentment set aside for the moment.

"What's she doing here?" a woman asks, frowning at me. I look at her, analyzing her with a glance. Her clothes are slightly wrinkled, as if she's worn them the day before. I sniff lightly and notice she's wearing men's deodorant. I look down at her wedding ring and realize she must be having an affair. Glancing around, I see a man who is undoubtedly her adulterer.

"You're having an affair," I say placidly. She looks at me, more than a little upset.

"You can't believe everything he says," she warns, pointing at Dad. "You know-"

"I didn't need Dad to point out a thing. I'm perfectly capable of seeing the obvious myself." She gapes at me, her mouth opening comically. Once again, though, I'm disappointed in that her surprise isn't for my deduction skills.

"_Dad_? Freak has a _kid_?" she exclaims. "How the hell-" I roll my eyes.

"I should hope you don't need _that_ explained to you, Donovan," Dad interrupts irritably. Meanwhile, my statement has caused a bit of a stir. The majority of the police force on duty has wandered over to see the world's only consulting detective's kid.

"All right, everyone, clear off. We've got a body to deal with," a voice says after only a moment. A man, presumably the force's captain, walks over.

"Sherlock. I see you've brought a guest." He gives me a once-over, seemingly displeased.

"Needed a fresh pair of eyes. It was her or the skull," Dad says breezily. Lestrade raises an eyebrow.

"I don't have a problem if you think she can handle it."

"Handle it? She's excited." It's true. I'm eager for my first crime scene. And that it's a murder, and there's a body to analyze, well, that's just a bonus.

"Well then. Right this way," he says, motioning us into the building and up the steps. We arrive at the top and the room is bare, with nothing but the body in the center.

"Tell them what you see, Sadie," Dad directs me. I know this is a test of sorts, and I'm determined to pass. I clear my throat and examine the body carefully. I note her appearance, her clothing, and her unpolished wedding ring.

"I see a young woman in her mid-thirties. Probably a job in the media, giving that alarming shade of pink. She's been married, at least ten years." I glance up to see the effect my words are having on my father. He is neither frowning nor smiling, so, nervously, I continue.

"And- wait, where's the suitcase?" I look around expectantly, but I don't see anything. Dad indicates for me to continue.

"But she _did_ have one, within the past few hours. One mo," I pull out my phone and do a quick search. "She came from Cardiff with a suitcase, probably intended to stay for one night."

"And what of the markings on the floor?" Dad prompts.

"No need. _Rache _is German for 'revenge'," Anderson cuts in. I snort derisively.

"Yes, a media blonde who is obviously from the area used her last bit of energy before dying to scratch the German word for revenge on the floor. It's not at all likely she meant the name 'Rachel'," Dad says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Suddenly, he jumps up and heads for the door. Raising an eyebrow, I follow him.

"Suitcase! Has anyone seen a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" he calls.

"There is no case!" Lestrade says exasperatedly.

"They chew, swallow the poison themselves. There are clear signs!" Dad exclaims.

"Even you lot couldn't miss them," I add. Lestrade looks a little offended, and I almost feel bad, but then I catch the tiny smirk that crosses my father's face for the briefest of moments.

"Right, yeah, thanks. And...?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how," my dad admits.

"They're not suicides, they're killings. Serial killings," I venture.

"A serial killer," Dad says with a slight grin. "Love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" asks Lestrade as I follow Dad outside.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case, did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case," my dad says loudly.

"So the killer must have driven her here, forgot the case was in the car," I surmise.

"Exactly! But then- oh!" he says suddenly.

"What? What is it?" Lestrade asks urgently. It's almost amusing, the way these people alternate between hanging on his every word and dismissing him as a psychopath.

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Dad's voice is low and urgent, the tone I know he takes on when he is completely serious about something.

"We can't just wait!" protests Lestrade.

"Look at her, really look! We're done waiting."

"What mistake?" Lestrade shouts after us as we walk out the door.

"Pink!"

We walk quickly down the street, away from the crime scene.

"That was good in there," Dad says, almost approvingly. I give him a strange look.

"You think?" He nods.

"A bit of training and I daresay you'll be nearly as good as me." I look at him, offended.

"Nearly? I was spot-on!" He smirks.

"You didn't make the connection about the string of lovers." My brow furrows.

"Sorry, what?"

"The ring," he explains, "was dirty on the outside and polished clean on the inside, but the rest of her jewelry was clean. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. She's from the media, doesn't work with her hands, so: a lover. This has been going on for quite a bit of time, but, she's still wearing the ring. She can't keep her marriage a secret from one man long, ergo, a serial adulterer."

"A minor detail," I say dismissively.

"One that could decide the whole point of the case. The smallest details are the most important," he says reprovingly. I scowl.

"All right, fine. But how are we going to find the case?" He gestures with his hand.

"Follow me." He motions for a cab and tells the cabby to drive slowly down the street, turning down any alleys wide enough for a car to fit through. At each alley, Dad and I get out of the car and check for the case, which I assume is the same garish shade of pink as the woman's outfit. After I realize his strategy, Dad seems content to let me take charge of the search. I assume he's still assessing my abilities. Finally, after nearly forty minutes, our work pays off and I recover the case from a dumpster. I move to open it immediately, but Dad stops me.

"Wait until we're back at the flat. You'll ruin the evidence," he scoffs.

"You're worse than the police," I mutter. He makes a noise that could either be an amused snort or an annoyed huff. I don't complain as he directs the cabby to take us back to Baker Street.

When we get to the living room and sit down with the case in front of us, I don't hesitate. After unzipping the case, I rifle through its contents.

"There's no phone. Where's the phone?" Dad mutters. We look at each other and reach the conclusion at the same time. _The killer has the phone._


	4. Chapter 4

(Author's Note: I am so very sorry for the long wait! My grandmother passed away and I was out of town for nearly a week with the funeral and everything. Needless to say, it's been a bit difficult lately. I am hoping that with the coming of the new year, I will have more free time for writing and such. As always, your reviews are appreciated and cherished! Thank you for taking the time to read! Enjoy!)

"Get your mobile. I need you to send a text," Dad says to me. I give him a look.

"Are you seriously asking me to send a text to a murderer?" I snort.

"No, you're right. Get John's; he left it on the counter." I walk over and grab John's phone. I'm sure he would, in fact, mind, but right now, I'm too excited about the case to care about courtesy. "The password is-" Dad begins.

"Yes, yes, I figured it out ages ago," I cut him off. "All right, what's the number?"

"On the desk," he says carelessly. Huffing, I retrieve the paper. It has a number and is labeled Jennifer Wilson.

"Why am I sending the- wait, so I'm texting a murderer, pretending to be his victim who's actually dead?" I may be perceptive, but hey, this is my first case. As much as it pains me to admit it (even to myself), I don't know _everything_ about murder investigations.

"Just enter the number," he says impatiently. I make a face as I type it in. "Are you doing it?"

"Yes," I reply irritably.

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah- hang on!" I exclaim, rolling my eyes.

"These words exactly: What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come." I type the message quickly and press send without hesitating.

"There, I've done it. But Dad?" The word, though becoming more familiar, is still something I have to think about before using. He raises a single eyebrow. "Don't we have to, you know, turn the case and such into evidence?" He is about to answer when John's phone begins to ring.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her," my father muses. "If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer…"

"Would panic." He jumps up and strides to the doorway quickly.

"Wait! Have you talked to the police?" I ask him.

"Four people are dead; there isn't time to talk to the police."

"Then why are you talking to me?" I venture to ask.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull." Even though he's not facing me, I can practically hear the grin in his voice.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?" I'm a little offended at this point. I mean, sure, I haven't got the whole thing figured out yet, but I'm certainly more useful than a skull.

"Relax, you're doing fine," he quips. Surprised, I laugh.

"All right, fine. I suppose you're taking me with you?"

"I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention so… problem?" I smile. I'm sure he'd die before he'd admit it, but he _wants _me to go with him.

"Nope." At his behest, I grab my coat and follow him out the door. We walk briskly in the cold night air, and I'm struggling to keep up because for every step he takes I have to take two. I put on an extra burst of speed and catch up to him as we turn a corner. "Where are we going?"

"Northumberland Street," he replies, "It's a five-minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to actually go there?"

"No, I think he's brilliant enough," came the quick reply. "I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"They want attention," I realize. I can relate to that. For the past month, while I spent most of my time in my room working on projects to distract me from my grief, I certainly felt attention-starved. And that little arrogant part of me does like for others to recognize my talent.

"That's the frailty of genius, Sadie. It needs an audience." He glances at me and I know he knows his words apply to both of us.

"This must be his hunting grounds," I say abruptly. "Right in the heart of the city."

"Yes, now that we know they were abducted, that changes everything. All of them disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think!" This last he directs toward me.

"They must be someone automatically trustworthy," I say unsteadily. "And they've got to be nearly invisible- that is, unnoticeable- anywhere. They have to be able to maneuver their way through a crowd."

"Right. Any ideas?" I shake my head. "Neither do I. Hungry?" We walk into a café that is directly across from Northumberland.

"He isn't going to just ring the doorbell though, is he? He's not mad." Dad shrugs.

"He has killed four people."

"Yeah, but he's not mad. I think he's got a reason, a specific purpose for killing all of these people," I object. John's phone rings before my dad can reply. I look at the screen and see a number with our area code. I assume it's John calling from a friend's to see if he's left his phone at the flat, so I answer it. Dad doesn't seem to object.

"Hello?" John answers. I am right.

"Hello, John. You left your phone at the flat," I tell him seriously.

"Yes, yes, I know, I'm coming back to get it. I'm calling on a friend's," John explains.

"Well, you're going to have to meet us at the café on Northumberland." Dad mouths for me to tell him not to bring his 'friend'. "Oh, and Dad says you can't bring your girlfriend. Lucy, is it?"

"How-" I can practically hear him blushing over the phone. "Never mind. Why do you have my phone at Northumberland?" He sounds a little wary, as if he is afraid of my reply.

"Well, Dad had me text the murderer with it, and he's supposed to meet us here," I reply promptly. I grin at my father, knowing what John's reaction will be.

"What?! You… All right, I'm almost there." I look across the table to see my father smirking. "He's almost here."

"I thought so." We sit there in silence for a moment.

"Dad?"

"Yes?" I hesitate. This is one question I'm not entirely sure I want to know the answer to. But, as always, my curiosity wins out over my sense of common courtesy.

"Are you really on drugs?" I ask tentatively. He looks at me steadily. He seems neither surprised nor displeased by the question.

"At the moment? I'm clean. But yes, I have used drugs before."

"How long ago?" He sighs. It's not something I've seen him do often.

"I stopped the day I found out about you."

"Oh." Neither of us speaks again until John comes in a couple minutes later. He walks in looking decidedly exasperated.

"I go to work for a half-shift and you two start texting murderers from my phone? Honestly, what were you thinking?" I roll my eyes.

"I'm starving and our food's almost ready. Can we skip the lecture, please?" I say as pleasantly as I can manage. I excuse myself to the restroom as he agrees to sit down, still grumbling about his mobile. As I'm coming out, I see our waiter approach the table with our food.

"Sherlock! I didn't know you had a friend!" Dad gives him the fake smile that he only uses on people he is manipulating. The way Angelo says "friend", I know he means something much different. The thought repulses me and makes me want to laugh at the same time. John, as ever, takes a moment to register the comment.

"What? No, we're not dates. Just flat-mates." Though I could easily walk to the table and ease his discomfort, I decide to hang back and watch.

"This is Angelo," Sherlock explains. Angelo launches into a story about how Dad cleared his name of murder and got him convicted of house-breaking. I come to the table just as he is finishing the story. I can see the confusion on his face as he tries to piece together exactly what relationship the three of us have.

"I'm the daughter, John's the flat-mate," I say casually. Angelo nods uncertainly.

"I suppose you won't be needing the candle then?" he asks.

"No, thank you," John tells him firmly. I am practically shaking with laughter by the time Angelo finally leaves.

"Look across the street," Dad says suddenly. John and I turn our heads and look in the direction he indicates. "Nobody getting in, nobody getting out. Why a taxi?"

"Oh, that's clever," John says.

"Is it clever? Why is it clever?" Dad asks, but more to himself than anyone else.

"That's him!" John says confidently.

"Don't stare," Dad tells us a moment later.

"Why not? You're staring," I complain.

"We can't both stare." He says this as if his logic is unshakeable. He gets up and walks out the door, and John and I follow uncertainly. I see him make eye contact with the driver of the cab, who suddenly drives away. Dad races far ahead and I chase after, sliding across the bonnet of a random car in the process. Behind me, John is not so lucky, and I hear him literally run into the car and apologize. Dad and I stop as it becomes obvious that we will not catch up to the car.

"I got the cab number," John says proudly as he catches up.

"Right turn, one-way, roadwork, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." He says urgently. He looks around, and after thinking for just a second, takes off on an alternate route.

"Have you actually memorized the entire street system of London?" I pant as I run several yards behind him.

"This way!" he calls in answer. John and I run in the direction his voice seems to come from. "No, this way!" he calls impatiently. More than a little embarrassed, I pour on the speed until I am even with my dad. He veers suddenly into the road, right in front of a cab. Thankfully, the cab stops just in time. Dad, seemingly unruffled, flashes one of Lestrade's badges at the cabby. "Police! Open her up!" The door opens to reveal a rather startled couple in their mid-thirties.

"Tourists," I mutter.

"No," he says dejectedly. "Teeth, tan, what, Californian?"

"L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived," I say quietly, now right beside him.

"How can you possibly know that?" John asks me incredulously.

"The luggage," I explain. "Probably your first trip to London, right?" I direct this last toward the couple.

"Going by your final destination and the route the cabby was taking you," Dad interjects.

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" the guy asks, clearly unsure of what to do.

"Yeah," Dad says, again showing him Lestrade's badge. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah," he says, still a little shocked.

"Welcome to London." A brief flash of his fake smile and then he walks away. I follow, stopping only to say to the couple seriously,

"Any problems, just let us know." John and my dad are waiting for me on the pavement ahead.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down?" John verifies.

"Basically, yeah," Dad confirms.

"Not the-"

"Not the murderer, no," I interrupt.

"Wrong country. Good alibi."

"As they go," says Dad curtly. John looks at the badge in my hand.

"Where did you both get police badges? Detective Inspector Lestrade?" John reads.

"Yeah. I pick-pocket him when he's annoying." Thinking of the whole event, I start to laugh.

"What?" Dad asks, looking at me strangely.

"Oh, nothing. It's just, 'Welcome to London!'" He chuckles a bit too.

"Got your breath back?" Dad asks us. I nod.

"Ready when you are," John confirms. The three of us take off running down the street. Welcome to London, indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

(Author's Note: Hey guys. Is anyone out there actually interested in this story? I know I've said all along that I write for myself, and if anyone else likes it, that's a bonus, but I'm seriously wondering: Are any of you guys enjoying it? If so, please review and tell me! I don't care if you love it or hate it, but I would really love some feedback! Also- I'm considering writing a seperate story of one-shots that will most likely focus more on the relationships between Sadie and everyone else. What do you think? I will even take requests/ideas and put them in if you guys like the idea. I hope you enjoy the chapter!)

When we get back to the flat, a tearful Mrs. Hudson meets us at the door.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she asks, wringing her hands. In response to his questioning look, she points to our door. "Upstairs," she says fearfully. Dad turns and runs upstairs, and I am right behind him. Inside is a sight to behold. Lestrade is seated in one of the armchairs while the majority of the police force is conducting a full-on search of our flat.

"What are you doing?" Dad asks, his voice filled with cold anger. Lestrade smiles, pleased to have the upper hand, for once.

"Well I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."

"Well you can't just break into our flat!" I say indignantly.

"Well you can't withhold evidence!" This last is directed towards my father. "And I didn't break into your flat."

"Well what do you call this then?" Dad shouts, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"It's a drugs bust," Lestrade says, almost grinning.

"I'm not your sniffer dog," Dad says casting him a resentful glance.

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog." Lestrade points to Anderson, who gives a sarcastic little wave.

"Well An- Anderson, what are you doing on a drugs bust?" I ask furiously.

"Oh, I volunteered," he assures me.

"They all did. They're not, strictly speaking, on the drugs squad, but they're very keen," Lestrade says, eyes twinkling.

"Are these human eyes?" I groan as Sally walks into the living room with a jar of, yes, human eyes.

"Put those back!" Dad orders.

"They were in the microwave!" she protests.

"It's an experiment," I say witheringly.

"Keep looking guys," calls Lestrade, standing. He looks my dad in the eye. "Or you could start helping us properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish," I complain.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child," he says evenly. Somehow I know he is not referring to me. "Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?" He even sounds like he's scolding a small child.

"Oh, oh what, so you set up a pretend drugs bust just to bully me?" Dad asks.

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade tells him seriously.

"I am clean!" Dad says adamantly. "I have been for over a month!" I am again struck by the fact that my dad completely gave up drugs for me. I guess his lying about on the couch and ignoring me makes sense now- he was suffering from withdrawals. He must've been miserable, but he never said anything. I snap back to reality as Lestrade says,

"But is your flat clean? All of it?" My dad presses his lips together.

"I don't even smoke," he says as he shows Lestrade the nicotine patch on his arm. He doesn't sound angry. He just sounds tired.

"Neither do I," Lestrade says amicably, pulling his shirt sleeve back to reveal his own nicotine patch. "So let's work together." Dad turns away, sulking. "We've found Rachel." I can see that he is dangling a carrot, but my dad takes the bait.

"Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter." Dads brow furrows, the way it does on the rare occasions he can't possibly fathom something.

"Why would she write her daughter's name, why?"

"Never mind that, we found the case!" Anderson interjects. "According to _someone_, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath." I look at him in pure disgust. How could anyone be so stupid?

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson, I'm a high-functioning sociopath."

"Do your research," I say reprovingly.

"You need to bring Rachel in and you need to question her. I need to question her!" Dad says, focusing on the case again.

"She's dead," explains Lestrade.

"Excellent. How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be!"

"Well I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive." In response to Dad's silence, he explains, "Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter 14 years ago."

I grimace sympathetically, but my dad can't seem to understand.

"No, that's… That's not right. How… Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson asks sarcastically. "Yeah, sociopath, I'm seeing it now."

"She didn't think about her daughter," Dad says coldly. "She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, it would have hurt."

"We know that the killer makes them take the poison. Maybe he talks to them, maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow?" John says, more of a question than anything else.

"Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?" Everyone in the flat falls silent. I can't even look at him. Can he really not understand how someone would be upset by the death of their daughter? He _has_ a daughter now. Has my presence not changed anything about him? I know he spoke without thinking and his words weren't directed towards me, but I feel wounded. I feel tears welling in my eyes and I blink them away before anyone else can notice. _Don't be such a baby,_ I chide myself. _You always knew he wasn't exactly father material. _

He looks around, taking in the silence and my particular avoidance of him. "Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah," John affirms.

"Yeah, but, if you'd been dying, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?" Dad asks desperately.

"Please, God, let me live," John says immediately.

"Oh, use your imagination," Dad says scornfully.

"I don't have to." It strikes me then that John has been in life-or-death situations. Whenever I see him, it always feels like he's always lived with my dad, but I realize now that he never talks about his past or his time in Afghanistan. But, of course, Dad completely misses the implication of that statement.

"Yeah, but if you were clever , really clever- Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers?- she was clever. She's trying to tell us something," he says adamantly. Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson comes up the steps.

"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away," he says irritably.

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?" She asks, unperturbed by my dad's sharp words.

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," I explain, my voice hollow.

"But they're just for my hip! They're herbal soothers!"

"Shut up, everybody, shut up!" Dad shouts. "Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe! I'm trying to think!" Without turning around, he adds, "Anderson, turn the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My face is?" asks Anderson, offended.

"Everybody, quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back." Lestrade orders.

"Oh, for God's sake-"

"Your back, now, please!"

"Come on, now, think," Dad mutters to himself.

"But what about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Dad shouts. I stare at him. I've never seen him shout at her before. She turns and hurries down the steps. Concerned, I follow after her. I know the effect my Dad's caustic words can have on anyone.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I ask. "Are you all right?" She brushes me off.

"I'm just fine, dear. Your father just gets a bit angry when he's doing his cases is all." She starts towards the door and sighs. "I don't know what to do about the taxi, the man insists he received a call."

"Don't worry about it, Mrs. Hudson. I'll take care of it. You just go in your flat and relax until the police are gone," I tell her. I still feel bad that my dad yelled at her.

"Oh, well, if you're sure, dear, then I think I might. When you get back in, I'll make you some biscuits and a nice cup of tea, yes?" I give her a weak smile and walk out the door. My dad's words are still echoing in my head. _Why would she still be upset?_

The cabbie is standing on the pavement next to his cab. He's elderly, in his late sixties at least, and I feel a twinge of sympathy that a man that age wasn't able to retire.

"Listen, I think there's been some kind of mistake. We don't need a taxi," I say, trying to be kind. I turn to head back into the flat, but his voice stops me.

"Oh, I don't think there's been any mistake, Ms. Holmes." I narrow my eyes. I think through every point of the case. The killer hunts in the middle of a crowd. He is automatically trustworthy, yet unnoticeable. The killer is…

"You." I say abruptly. "You're the cabbie who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not your passenger."

"See, no one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like your invisible. Just the back of a head." He pauses. "Proper advantage for a serial killer." I shiver involuntarily.

"Is this a confession?" I ask, straining to keep my voice steady.

"Oh, yeah. And I'll tell you what else. If you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"'Cause you're not gonna do that. I wanted your dad, but I suppose you'll do just as well."

"Am I not?" I ask coolly.

"I didn't kill those four people, Sadie. I spoke to them, and they killed themselves. If you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing." Glancing at the mirror, he looks me straight in the eye. "I will never tell you what I said."

"No one else will die, though. That's a result," I say, trying to convince myself.

"You won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?" I think. If I don't alert the police, then this man will continue to hurt others. But, if I can somehow manage to overpower or outsmart him, then not only will he stop killing, but I might just be able to impress my father. I weigh my options carefully.

"If I wanted to understand," I say carefully, "what would I do?"

"Let me take you for a ride." I flinch back.

"What, so you can kill me too?" I retort.

"I don't want to kill you, Sadie," he says placidly. "I'm gonna talk to you, and then you're gonna kill yourself." I think a moment. I'm fairly certain there is nothing he can do that would make me want to kill myself. So what is it, then? Does he force his victims to take the poison? I realize, with a jolt, that my curiosity outweighs my fear.

What would my father want me to do?

Do I really care?

I get into the cab.

(Author's Note: Okay, sorry for the cliff hanger, but I think we all know, vaguely, how this case will end. If you don't, well then I will try to get an update in within the next couple of days. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think!)


	6. Chapter 6

(Author's Note: Okay, so this chapter I'm going to do something a little different. So that we are able to see everything that is going on, I'm going to be switching point of view just a little bit. I will clearly mark everything, so don't worry, but let me know whether you like this or not. If so, I could make things interesting and switch around like this on a regular basis. Thanks for reading! Also- this is the last chapter for this 'episode', and I may not be able to post more until later this week. I'm working on a Merlin fic that I will post tomorrow if anyone's interested :)

*About 5 minutes previously*

(John)

I watch Sadie leave with Mrs. Hudson, but I don't comment. I know Sherlock's comment about the daughter upset her, though she'd die before admitting it. I resolve to check on her later.

"Oh," Sherlock breathes. "Ah… She was clever, clever, yes. She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead!" I stare at him, once again struck by his insensitivity. "Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him!" He says all of this as if it leads to an obvious conclusion, but I can't quite figure it out yet. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" asks Lestrade, voicing all of our thoughts.

"What… What do you mean 'how'?" Sherlock looks at us all in disbelief.

"Uh…" Lestrade trails off.

"Rachel!" he exclaims, hoping to trigger some sort of comprehension. "Don't you see- Rachel!" Seeing that we still don't understand, he gives a superior smile. "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" I ask loudly, fed up with his narcissism.

"John, on the luggage, there's a label," he replies without missing a beat. "E-mail address." He sits down in front of his laptop.

"Uh, .uk," I read to him.

"Oh, I've been too slow," my friend sighs. "She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smart phone. It's e-mail enabled, so there was a website for her account. The user-name is her e-mail address and- all together now- the password is?"

"Rachel." I'm the only one who answers him.

"So we can read her e-mails? So what?" Anderson says disdainfully.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street." I resist the urge to chuckle at Sherlock's words. "We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smart phone. It's got GPS, which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," says Lestrade.

"We know he didn't," I say quickly, but I don't elaborate, as it was my cell phone they used to text the murderer. "Come on, come on, quickly!" Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson comes back up the steps.

"Sherlock dear, this taxi driver is still here," she says worriedly.

"Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He says dismissively. He turns back to Lestrade and leaves her by the door, wringing her hands. "Get vehicles, get a helicopter. We're going to have to move fast; this phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," Lestrade objects.

"It's a start," counters Sherlock. I glance at the screen, where the map is narrowing down to a specific location.

"Sherlock?" He ignores me.

"Narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock?" I try again.

"Where is it, quickly, where?" He looks over my shoulder at the computer.

"It's… here. It's in 221 Baker Street," I say, confused.

"How can it be here?" wonders Sherlock. "How?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it… fell out somewhere," Lestrade suggests.

"What, and I didn't notice it? Me? I didn't notice?" Sherlock asks incredulously.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," I say logically.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belongs to the victim," Lestrade orders the team, ignoring us. I can see the wheels turning in Sherlock's head as he deduces where the phone is. Distractedly, I look out the window and to my astonishment, I see Sadie getting into a cab.

"Why is Sadie getting in the cab?" I ask him, confused. Sherlock's eyes snap over to mine.

"Give me your mobile." I don't hesitate. I whip out my phone and toss it to him. He deftly catches it and begins dialing her number- I'm surprised he's got it memorized.

"She's not answering," Sherlock mutters frustratedly. Suddenly, he runs toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade shouts. Sherlock gives no reply.

Everyone stares at him a moment after he's gone.

"I'll try the phone again," I say after a minute. I dial and wait. "It's just ringing out."

"Well if it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade says.

"I'll try the search again," I offer.

"Does it matter?" Sally asks, disgusted. "Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time." I ignore her because I know she's wrong. Sherlock must have had a reason for running out like that. Lestrade, however, doesn't.

"Okay, everybody. We're done here."

(Sadie)

"How did you find my father and me?" I ask curiously.

"Oh, I recognized your dad," the old man says proudly. "As soon as I saw you him chasing my cab- Sherlock Holmes. I was warned about him. Heard about you, as well, but just that you're his daughter. I had no idea you were into solving crimes yourself." I have to remind myself that now is not the time to be offended by statements like that.

"Who told you about us?" I ask steadily.

"Someone out there who's noticed you," the man says passively.

"Who?" I ask again. "Who would notice us?"

"You're being too modest, Sadie," the cabbie tells me.

"I'm really not," I say irritably.

"Your dad's got himself a fan. Maybe you too, if you keep up the crime scene work."

"Tell me more," I say casually, careful not to seem too eager.

"That's all you're gonna know," he says after a pause. "In this lifetime." Strangely, the statement doesn't scare me.

(John)

"Why did he do that?" Lestrade complains. "Why did he have to leave?"

"I've only been his flat-mate for a month and a half. You know him better than I do," I say.

"I've known him for years, and no, I don't," he replies, shaking his head.

"So why do you put up with him?" I wonder. This is the first case I've ever seen Sherlock on, but I can tell he's not very easy to work with.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade admits. He walks to the door. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

(Sadie)

"Where are we?" I ask as the cab pulls to a stop.

"I know you've been reading the road signs. You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?" The taxi driver shrugs.

"It's open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie, you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out." I ignore his abysmal attempt at humor.

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" In response, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gun, leveling it with my chest. I'm a little alarmed, but I hide that behind a mask of disinterest.

"Oh, I really did think you were clever than that. I'm rather bored."

"Don't worry; it gets better," he claims.

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint," I say scornfully.

"I don't. It's much better than that." He lowers the gun. "Don't need this with you. 'Cause if you're anything like you're dad, you'll follow me." He is right. I follow him inside.

(John)

I'm just about to head out the door to look for Sherlock when the computer beeps. With a jolt, I realize that the phone is in a new location. I grab my mobile and call Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" I'm more than a little surprised when he answers.

"Yes, John?" I can hear him panting, and I know he's running.

"The phone's somewhere else. Roland-Kerr Further Education College."

"John, go downstairs and see if Sadie's in Mrs. Hudson's flat." I can't believe it. I have the location of the murderer and he doesn't even care!

"Didn't you hear me? The phone-"

"Yes, John, I heard you, but Sadie's missing. See if she's in Mrs. Hudson's flat," Sherlock says impatiently. My eyes widen. I run downstairs to check for Sadie, but she isn't there. I know where she is, and Sherlock does too.

"She's not here, Sherlock. I think-" He hangs up and the door swings open.

"Come on, we're going to Roland Further Education College. Call the police in the cab." I follow him out the door and we jump into the cab. I don't know how he's being so calm; I'm close to freaking out! I suppose he has to separate himself from it all, so that he can find her. I only hope that by the time we get there, we won't be too late.

(Sadie)

We enter into a large room filled with long tables.

"Well what do you think?" The cabbie asks me. "It's up to you. You're the one that's gonna die here."

"No I'm not," I say confidently.

"That's what they all say," he tells me. "Shall we talk?" He sits down across from me and I follow suit. I sigh.

"Bit risky, wasn't it?" I ask him. "Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policeman. Not to mention my dad. They're not that stupid. Mrs. Hudson will remember you."

"You call that a risk?" the man asks. "Nah. _This _is a risk." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bottle. Inside it is a pill covered with little brown spots. I stare intently. "Oh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this." He pulls out an identical bottle with an identical pill. I lean back, eyebrows raised. Two pills? He must be going to make me choose one. "Weren't expecting that, were you? Oh, you're gonna love this."

"Love what?" I ask quietly.

"You know, your fan told me about you. He'll be so excited to know you're just like your dad. Brilliant. Maybe even a proper genius. Deduction- now _that_ is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think? Doesn't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?" I don't want to agree with him, but I can almost understand him. Almost.

"Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too."

"Don't look it, do I?" he asks. "Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are, it'll be the last thing you ever know."

"Okay, two bottles. Explain," I say firmly.

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live. Take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

"Both bottles are of course identical." A statement, not a question.

"In every way," he confirms.

"And do you know which is which?"

"Of course I know."

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew." He smiles. "You're the one who chooses."

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on," I say coldly. "What's in it for me?"

"I haven't told you the best bit yet." His smirk disgusts me. "Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together, we take our medicine." I give a wry smile. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." He looks at me with unconcealed humor. "Didn't expect that, did you Sadie?"

"This is what you did to the rest of them? You gave them a choice?" I ask.

"And now I'm giving you one. Take your time. I want your best game."

"It's not a game, it's chance," I say contemptuously.

"I've played four times: I'm alive. It's not chance, Sadie, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this? This is the move." He slides a bottle towards me. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."

(John)

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade! I need to speak to him! It's important. It's an emergency!" I glance down at the tablet. "Uh, left here, please, left here," I tell the cabbie. I find it more than a bit ironic that we're taking a cab to rescue Sadie who was kidnapped by a man in a cab… But there really was no alternative. I sigh.

"They won't let me talk to him, Sherlock."

"Then we'll just have to handle this one alone."

(Sadie)

"You ready yet, Sadie?" The taxi driver asks. "Ready to play?"

"Play what?" My voice holds barely constrained anger: I'm angry at myself for getting me into this situation, at the cabbie for forcing me to choose, and this mysterious 'fan' of my fathers who is the source of this mess. "It's a 50-50 chance."

"You're not playing the numbers, you're playing me," he chides. "Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff, or a double-bluff?"

"It's still just chance," I whisper.

"Four people in a row? That's not chance."

"Luck."

"It's genius," he counters. "I know how people think. I know how people think _I_ think. I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you." He leans back in his chair.

"You're wasted as a cabbie."

When we arrive at the college, we don't hesitate to get out of the cab.

"You go around to the other entrance: see if you can catch sight of them. I'll go to the other side." We both head off. Either way, we'll see Sadie soon.

(Sadie)

"You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?" I ask.

"Time to play," he deflects.

"Oh, I am playing," I assure him. "This is my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. There are traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own. There's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children in your window and the children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old, but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts." I clasp my hands with only my pointer fingers pointing up, unconsciously mimicking my father. "Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered, but everything you're wearing is at least three years old. Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree." I knit my eyebrows. "What's that about?" Staring at him, I realize. "Ah. Three years ago. Is that when they told you?"

"Told me what?" he asks evenly.

"That you're a dead man walking."

"So are you," he points out.

"You don't have long, though," I say, ignoring him. "Am I right?" He gives a sardonic smile.

"Aneurism, right here," he indicates his head. "Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying you've just murdered four people."

"I've outlived four people," he corrects me angrily. "That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism." Something still feels off, though.

"No," I decide. "No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter." I look at his face and frown. "Somehow, this is about your children."

"Oh," he says appreciatively, "I underestimated you, didn't I? When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money; I'm driving cabs."

"Or a serial killer," I can't help adding.

"You'd be surprised."

"Surprise me."

"I have a sponsor," he tells me mysteriously.

"You have a what?" I honestly have no idea what he means.

"For every life I take money goes to my kids. More I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" I wonder.

"Who'd be a fan of the Holmes family? You and your dad aren't the only ones to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just one person. And they're so much more than that."

"What do you mean 'more than a man'?" I ask him. "An organization? What?"

"There's a name no one says. And I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose.

"What if I don't choose either?" I say finally. "I could just walk out of here." Without flinching he immediately pulls out a gun. I glance down the barrel of it and give a slight smile

"You can take the 50-50 chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funny enough, no one's ever gone for that option."

"I'll have the gun, please," I say calmly.

"Are you sure?" he asks me.

"Definitely. The gun."

"You don't want to phone a friend?" he verifies. I smirk.

"The gun." He pulls the trigger and a tiny flame comes out of the end. "I know a real gun when I see one."

"None of the others did." He's almost sulking.

"Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." I stand up and walk towards the exit.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one's the good bottle?"

"Of course," I scoff. "Child's play." I open the door a crack.

"Well, which one, then? Which one would you have picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?" I let the door close. "Come on. Play the game. I walk over to the table and snatch the bottle closest to him.

"Oh. Interesting." He grabs the other bottle and shakes out the pill. "So what do you think? Shall we?" I pause. "Can you beat me? Clever enough… to bet your life?"

(John)

I run down a hallway, calling her name. I look on both sides as I run, trying to catch sight of her curly black hair. I know she has to be here somewhere! I burst into a room and then stop. I can see her through the window of the building next to us. She's standing next to an old man. And she's got a pill in her hand.

"Sadie!"

(Sadie)

"I bet you get bored a lot, don't you?" the man taunts me. "I know you do. Girl like you, so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" I hold my pill up to the light, inspecting it. "You've got the addict personality, just like your father. But _this_, this is what you're really addicted to. You'll do anything, anything at all to stop being bored. You're not bored now, are you?"

Suddenly a shot rings through the air, and the old cabbie falls to the ground. I turn wildly around to look through the window, but no one is there. There is only a bullet hole. Then I hear coughing and realize the man is still alive. Seized with a sudden desire to know, I hold up the pill.

"Was I right?" I ask forcefully. When he doesn't answer, I throw the pill across the room in disgust. "Okay, fine. Tell me this. Your sponsor, who was it? The one who told you about me and my dad, our _fan_? I want a name!"

"No," he says weakly. I don't want to be cruel, but I know this is information we need. Simply hurting the man is an option, but it's not one I want to take. I decide to try a different tact.

"You're dying. Nothing can hurt you after this. Your kids are taken care of. Tell me this and maybe you can do a tiny bit to make up for those murders. Tell me this and I can help make sure more people don't die!" He gives me a pained look.

"Moriarty," he croaks finally. And with that, his eyes close and he dies.

Dazedly, I make my way outside, and within a minute or two, the police and the ambulance arrive. I guess they finally put it together that I was taken after they heard of a break-in at the college. A hospital worker leads me over to an ambulance, sits me down, and puts an orange blanket around me. Lestrade comes up and sits beside me.

"Why have I got this blanket? They- they keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock," he explains.

"But I'm not in shock!" I protest.

"Are you sure? No one's blaming you after what you just went through," he says seriously. I roll my eyes.

"So the shooter, no sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," I assure him.

"Okay, give it to me." I stand up.

"The bullet they just dug out was from a handgun. A kill shot from that distance with that kind of a weapon? That's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimated to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so a strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel…" I trail off as I see my father running up while John waits near the police perimeter. _It must have been John that shot the cabbie._

"Sadie! Are you all right?" my dad asks. Ignoring the incredulous looks from most of the police, he pulls me into a hug. I think quickly.

"Er… I'm all right, but actually Lestrade, ignore me."

"What?" He can't quite believe it. A Holmes, telling him to ignore them.

"Ignore, all of that. It's uh, it's just the shock talking. I'm in shock." I stand up and my father, understanding me, puts his arm around me and leads me towards John.

"Where are you going?" I make a deeply upset face and turn back towards him.

"I- I just need to go home with my dad right now," I sniff.

"But you were- I've still got questions!"

"What now, Lestrade? She's in shock!" Dad tells him with fake astonishment.

"I've got a blanket," I add.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaims.

"And she just caught you a serial killer," Dad adds. "More or less." I muster up a few fake tears.

"Dad, can we just go home, please?" I say pitifully. If I wasn't so into character I would laugh.

"You see? You're upsetting her. She's just been kidnapped and watched a man been shot and you're making her cry," Dad guilt-trips him. He looks at both of us. He knows something is off, and that my tears aren't genuine, but he can't do anything with the whole squad watching. To them, it looks like he's making a little girl cry.

"Okay," he says after a moment. "We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go." Relieved, Dad and I walk to meet John, where he is leaning against a police car. Without really thinking about it, I toss my blanket inside.

"Sergeant Donovan's been explaining everything," John says. "Uh, two pills?" I nod. "Dreadful business, isn't it?"

"Dreadful," Dad agrees.

"Good shot," I say quietly.

"Yes, yes, must have been… through that window," John says humbly.

"Well, you'd know," I say. John doesn't reply.

"Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case," Dad suggests. I look at John closely.

"Are you all right?" He clears his throat.

"Yes, 'course I'm all right."

"Well, you have just killed a man," Dad points out.

"Yeah," John says after a moment. "That's true."

"But he wasn't a very nice man," I say brightly.

"No. No, he really wasn't, was he?" Dad remarks.

"And frankly, a bloody awful cabby," John adds. We chuckle a little bit.

"That's true. He really was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here!" Dad starts giggling and I giggle along with him.

"Stop!" John hushes us. "No, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene."

"You're the one that shot him. Don't blame me," I defend myself.

"Keep your voice down!" he exclaims. We pass a couple of the ambulance crew. "Sorry, it's just, um, nerves, I think."

"Sorry," I add.

John turns to me.

"You weren't really gonna take that damn pill, were you?"

"You were about to take the pill?" Dad asks sternly.

"Course not. Just biding my time. I knew you'd turn up," I claim.

"No, you didn't. You're just like your dad: You risk your life to prove you're clever," John says exasperatedly.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot," he says affectionately. I smile.

"Thanks for coming after me, both of you."

"I will always come after you," Dad promises, putting his arm around me. "But don't ever do anything like that again!" I look up at him.

"You would have been upset if…" He catches my allusion to his earlier callous statement.

"Of course I would have been! What I said earlier I said without thinking, and that was wrong of me. But I didn't know what it was like to be in that situation. After tonight… I'll never make that mistake again."

"Okay," I agree. "Can we get dinner?" We stop walking suddenly as Mycroft appears out of nowhere in front of us.

"Sadie! Are you all right?" he asks concernedly, hugging me. What is up with everyone hugging me? I suppose though my dad isn't fond of him, he genuinely does care about us.

"I'm fine. Just glad it's over," I tell him honestly.

"Putting on weight again?" Dad asks. I nudge him. Honestly, sometimes he can be such a child!

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft gives him a pleased smile.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home; you know what it does to the traffic," Dad says sardonically. I give him one last grateful smile before my dad leads me away. I am more than ready to go home.

(Author's Note: Did you guys like it? Did you hate it? Good or bad, reviews are amazing :)


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